Winter descended upon the valley. Snow blanketed the fields, muffling the sound of soldiers' drills and coating the half-built fortress walls in icy white. Smoke rose from chimneys where villagers huddled, finding warmth in the new order Eugene had promised them.
But peace was only the mask of winter. Beneath its silence, knives were being drawn.
Far away in Kai Fortress, General Ishida sat by a brazier, his fan resting idly in his hand. His spies knelt before him, their heads bowed low.
"The boy has Imagawa's silence," one whispered. "His villages grow stronger. His army drills without pause."
Ishida's lips curved in a thin line. "Then we change our game. If the wolf cannot devour him by force, we cut him apart with smaller teeth."
His eyes sharpened. "Send word to the shinobi clans. Gold enough to buy their loyalty. Let Eugene's men whisper of ghosts in the night, of unseen blades. We will bleed his strength without raising a single banner."
The order was given. And so the Winter of Knives began.
At Kai Valley Fortress, the first blow fell silently.
A watchman was found at dawn, throat cut, his body slumped against the battlements. The snow around him was untouched, as though the killer had vanished into the air itself.
Whispers spread quickly among the soldiers.
"Ghosts stalk the walls.""No—shinobi. Takeda shinobi.""If they can strike here, where are we safe?"
Even seasoned defectors from Satomi's army muttered uneasily. Fear gnawed at the fortress walls more swiftly than any siege.
In the war council, Hiroshi slammed his fist on the table. "Cowards! Let them face us on the field rather than creep like rats in the dark!"
Captain Inoue, more grim, shook his head. "They strike where we cannot guard every corner. Morale is crumbling. If this continues, men will desert again."
Lady Aiko's eyes glittered in the candlelight. "This is Ishida's game. He knows he cannot march yet, so he seeks to weaken you from within."
Eugene remained silent for a long moment, his fingers tracing the grain of the table. Then, he spoke with quiet certainty.
"Then we fight shadows with fire."
The AI pulsed in his thoughts:
[Threat Assessment: Infiltration operations active. Probability of continued assassinations: 87%. Recommended countermeasure: counter-intelligence units, controlled misinformation, and targeted purges.]
Eugene's eyes narrowed. If Ishida thinks he can frighten me, let him learn fear instead.
Over the next weeks, Eugene reshaped his fortress. Patrols doubled, but more importantly, he established "ghost hunts." Trusted soldiers disguised themselves as vulnerable targets, bait for the assassins. Villagers were taught signals to alert guards if strangers prowled. Every fire, every lantern, every shadow was watched.
And slowly, the hunters became the hunted.
One night, as a shinobi crept toward the granaries, he found himself surrounded by soldiers waiting in silence, their spears glinting. Another was dragged from the rafters of the great hall before his poisoned blade could strike.
Word spread among the men: The boy sees even the shadows.
Fear turned back upon the assassins.
But Eugene was not satisfied with defense alone. He summoned a captured shinobi to the dungeons. The man knelt, bound and bleeding, but his eyes burned with defiance.
"You think you can frighten me with silence?" Eugene asked, his voice calm as still water.
The assassin spat blood. "The wolves will feast on you, boy. You are but a child pretending at war."
Eugene's gaze hardened. "Perhaps. But tell me—how many wolves remain if one teaches them to bite each other?"
At his signal, Lady Aiko stepped forward. Her methods were not of blade or fire, but of silk and whispers. Hours later, the assassin broke—not to torture, but to her velvet tongue and his own fear of dishonor.
And with his confession came gold-marked names: Takeda lords who had paid the shinobi, clans that had lent their blades.
In the council, Hiroshi's eyes blazed. "So Ishida bought them! Then let us buy them too. If their loyalty is for sale, let our coin speak louder!"
Inoue growled. "Shinobi are vipers. They may strike for you today, and for your enemy tomorrow."
Eugene's lips curved faintly. "All the better. If the wolves cannot trust their own knives, they will hesitate all the more."
The AI pulsed in his mind:
[Strategic disruption plan viable. Redirecting enemy resources by infiltrating shinobi networks increases survival probability by 23%. Recommended: establish controlled leaks of false intelligence to enemy spies.]
Eugene nodded slightly. "Then we shall not merely stop the knives—we will turn them."
The winter dragged on. Snow piled high, food stores ran low, yet the fortress endured. Each failed assassination, each captured shinobi, became a story told by firelight among the soldiers: Our lord cannot be killed. Even shadows bow to him.
Fear transformed into faith. What Ishida had meant as poison became iron.
But Ishida, too, received word. His spies knelt before him, reporting failures, betrayals, names turned.
The general's eyes burned with fury. His fan snapped shut with a thunderclap.
"The boy not only resists, he twists the blades back upon us," Ishida growled. "Very well. If whispers cannot kill him, then steel must."
His gaze turned toward the maps, toward the valley fortress that had humiliated him time and again.
"When spring comes," Ishida vowed, "we march. And this time, no hesitation."
Back in the fortress, Eugene stood upon the walls, the snow swirling around him. He gazed at the torches in the night, the villages he had saved, the men who looked to him not as a boy, but as their lord.
Lady Aiko joined him, her breath misting in the cold. "You've turned their knives against them. The people whisper of you as more than a warrior. Some call you… the Crescent Lord."
Eugene's eyes remained on the horizon. "Names do not matter. Survival matters. But if they must give me a name…" His hand rested on his sword. "Then let it be one the wolves will learn to fear."
The AI whispered its cold verdict:
[Kingdom Formation Progress: 18%. Status: Stable. Projected threat: High. Major confrontation expected within 3–6 months.]
Eugene's lips curved faintly in the snow. "So be it. Winter has been theirs. Spring will be mine."
The wind howled across the valley, carrying with it the promise of blood yet to come.